


Confession's not good for the soul

by FancifulRivers



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Chara And Asriel Have Their Bodies Back, Disabled Character, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, No Mercy Route Implied, Post-Undertale Pacifist Route, Sign Language, Suicide, because reasons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-24 16:42:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7515590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancifulRivers/pseuds/FancifulRivers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chara tells Sans how exactly they died.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confession's not good for the soul

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Undertale.
> 
> ...I might at some point put more stories in this universe. Or not. I have a lot already. :P

You wish you could snatch the words back as soon as they escape your mouth. Frisk's just glaring at you (they've heard it all before, they  _know_ you), but Sans is staring in that particular  _intense_ way that you remember from the judgment hall, and you really,  _really_ wish that for once you could keep your fucking mouth shut-

"suicide?" Sans asks. You bite your bottom lip, hard enough you think you can taste blood, though you try to pass it off. No big deal, nothing's wrong, you definitely didn't get flustered by Frisk pestering you  _again_ about your...peculiar living situation (like Frisk can even  _talk_ , they spend most of their nights on the  _sofa_ , you sleeping out in a garden shouldn't raise any particular red flags) and  _certainly_ didn't manage to blurt something out about there being "-no buttercups in the damn backyard, Frisk, I'm not going to commit suicide  _again_."

"Slip of the tongue?" you try. Pale blue flickers somewhere deep in his skull and you panic, dropping your toast to the floor and skidding backward out of the kitchen like you can fly. You're faster than you think you probably should be, especially with the crackle of pain in your ankles, and it's not long before you're out the back door and scaling the tree in the backyard, curling up in the highest branches you can safely perch on while trying to pretend that your heart isn't beating faster than a hummingbird's.

"You should be more careful, Sans," you can almost hear Frisk now. They're good at quiet admonishments when necessary- not that they ever made  _you_ feel bad of course. You shift uncomfortably, a particularly pointy branch prickling your lower back.

The back door opens wider, then clicks shut. You hear footsteps shuffle across the grass. A peek and all you see is a pink and purple hoodie. Good. It's just Frisk then. When they reach the base of the tree, you attempt a lazy smile, like you planned this. They roll their eyes.

"Chara, you're not a cat, would you please get out of the tree?" they ask. Their voice is hoarse, like talking is hard today, and you feel a pang of guilt.

"Is he gone?" you ask instead of moving, ignoring the guilt. Frisk sighs theatrically- you can see their shoulders shove up around their ears and their hoodie distend with the force of their breath.

"No," Frisk admits. "It's been a while, Chara. He might, you know. Understand."

"Right," you say, snorting. You've come to some kind of truce with the skeleton. A friendly one even. You throw popcorn at each other and watch shitty anime with Alphys and tease each other about the trash you both like to eat. But suicide is a pretty  _deep_ subject. An  _emotional_ subject.

And the last time the two of you got emotional, you had a knife in your hand and all he could see was blue.

"Please?" Frisk requests. "At least come back into the house, Chara, you know I'm always afraid you're going to fall out of there."

"Only if Asriel's not gonna be home for a while," you relent, scowling. You don't know how much of that time Ree remembers, but you don't  _want_ to know. His nightmares are bad enough. Sometimes he even sleeps  _with_ you in the garden. You'll never say, but you appreciate it when he does. He's like your own personal heater.

"Mom's got him for hours yet," Frisk says promptly. "Took him shopping with Dad."

"Oh, won't that be fun," you snicker, uncurling yourself from your branch and carefully beginning your descent. "They still hate each other."

"More like strong dislike," Frisk says, sounding cheerful. "And you know they don't let it show around him."

"No," you admit.

Sooner than you want to be, your feet are firmly planted back on the grass, and Frisk takes your elbow- gently and not with any force, you could take your arm back at any time. But you don't. You just let Frisk lead you back to Sans, who's now standing in the doorway, eyes wide and thankfully blank. He's still holding a ketchup bottle in one hand.

"Get comfy," you growl, flapping a hand at the couch. It's still got rolled up blankets to the side from Frisk's night. The one you were attempting to confront them about when they decided to change the subject back around on  _you_.

"Since Frisk here can't leave well enough alone," you start, voice brittle and too-high. Sans gives you that warning  _look_ but Frisk only pats your knee. They're used to your- your prickliness, and it's not like this is a fun subject. 

"The hope of monsters," you say, mostly to yourself, before snorting out another laugh. "I'm jack shit."

"You're hope to me," Frisk says, but you shake your head.

"Yeah, Little Mx  _Actually_ Broke the Barrier gets no say here," you say. It's kind of harsh, but it's not really mean. You don't mean it that way anyway. 

"I wanted to save everyone," you mumble. You don't look up at Sans. You don't want to see his face. You don't want to hear him say something about how you tried to kill everyone instead. He wouldn't understand. He  _can't_ understand. (You're not sure  _you_ understand it yourself.)

"I just- Ree and I made a plan," you continue. "Well...I made a plan."

"your plan was suicide?" Sans interjects. He doesn't  _sound_ pissed off, but you know that doesn't mean much.

"That's how it started, yes," you snap. "It didn't work, okay?"

"you didn't die?" Sans questions. You shudder involuntarily, remembering the taste of blood bright and coppery in your throat, the  _pain_ that ripped through your middle like a chainsaw, the blisters-

You don't realize you've curled up into a ball until Frisk patiently works at un-curling you, murmuring your name and things that sound vaguely soothing in your ear.

"sorry, kiddo," Sans says. You look up. He's moved a little closer, but not close enough that it's going to make you panic. "you don't have to tell me anything, i'm sorry i pried."

You blink in shock.

"I can say a little," you finally tell him, staring at your jeans like they hold all the words trapped behind your teeth. "I ate buttercups. A lot of buttercups. I don't recommend it. And you know, the plan was a stunning failure."

"now that i rose, i can say that sounds like some thorny issues," Sans says in the silence. You're surprised into laughter, picking up a couch pillow and aiming it at his shoulder.

"That was weak," you protest. "That was so forced, you know it was."

"tibia honest, you're probably right." Sans grins at you, and you laugh again, still a bit watery. Frisk passes you a handful of Kleenex without looking at you and you mop your eyes roughly with them.

"Also, I'm sorry for bringing that up," Frisk murmurs solemnly. "I just get worried about you sleeping outside."

"I'll try to sleep more inside," you tell them. "I make no promises though."

_Wouldn't have you any other way,_ Frisk signs, giving up on vocalizing.

It's not quite a hug you settle into, but it might as well be.


End file.
